


Sandpaper Sigh

by jvo_taiski



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Canonical Character Death, Domestic, F/F, Fluff, Getting Together, Healing, Post-Canon, mental health, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29778696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Annie’s on the end of her tether but Johanna resolves to keep telling her thatit’s okay, until one day, it actually is.Johanna and Annie, after the war.
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair (past), Annie Cresta/Johanna Mason
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Sandpaper Sigh

**Author's Note:**

> not me writing 6k+ words in one sitting for a pairing with less than 100 works on the tag, instead of doing coursework, again

Annie’s hand is cold and clammy in hers, and she’s crying silent tears that make her thin body tremble like ripples on the surface of the sea when it’s raining. Johanna doesn’t know what to do.

“I don’t want—”

“Annie. It’s okay.”

Johanna’s a breath away from crumpling and folding in on herself too, leaving Annie to drift alone. Because they might have won and Johanna might have finally realised that she’s got something to care about, but if anything, that makes it worse.

“How is any of this okay?”

“Annie. I promise it’s okay.”

Finnick’s dead, and it should have been Johanna, but none of that matters much anymore. The war is over and Katniss has gone mad and Johanna feels like she should be going mad too, but she’s holding on, just barely. And Annie’s on the end of her tether. But the war’s over and Johanna resolves to keep telling her that _it’s okay,_ until one day, it actually is.

So, Haymitch finds them a place in District Four, a remote cottage sort of thing, and Johanna realises she cares about him, and that it’s okay, because the war is over and she’s allowed to care about people now. It’s nice, the cottage. Wooden and airy and it has a view of the grassy cliffs and a pebble beach and Johanna can hear the sea from where she sleeps. Annie spends days curled on the couch, silent, and it’s okay. She says that the sea reminds her of him.

“It doesn’t hurt like it should,” says Annie quietly, one day. “I feel like it should hurt, when every little thing reminds me of him. Didn’t I love him enough for it to hurt?”

“It’s comforting,” suggests Johanna. “And besides. He would have wanted you to be happy.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says, still hesitant, but it’s okay. Johanna’s only glad that it’s a pebble beach because she’s developed a burning hatred for sand, what when it clings to every orifice and reminds her of an arena she really doesn’t want to remember.

There are two bedrooms in the cottage, and Annie says it’s perfect because once the baby is born, it can have its own room. Johanna shares with Annie. At first, it’s because there’s only a double bed and they haven’t got around to buying another one, but then it’s because Annie wakes up screaming more often than not, and when she doesn’t, it’s Johanna looking for comfort. The weight of another person next to her makes it that much better, and Johanna thinks she loves Annie but says nothing.

***

The baby is born and Johanna thinks that maybe Annie was only holding on this long for him, because she seems to withdraw further into her shell whatever Johanna tries to coax her out.

“It looks like him.” Tears streak down Annie’s lovely face.

“He’s a baby, Annie. He’s a _him,_ not an _it_ anymore.”

She’s rewarded with a wan smile, but it’s fleeting, like a moon disappearing behind clouds.

“What are you going to name him?” asks Johanna.

“I don’t know,” admits Annie.

“After his father?” prompts Johanna, gently. Annie makes a face.

“It feels wrong. Naming a baby _Finnick._ I have no idea what his mother was thinking.”

Johanna snorts, unexpected. “What else are you thinking, then?”

“Something sea-themed,” muses Annie, and Johanna treasures the moment she looks a little more alive than she usually does.

“I don’t know. Davy? Skipper?”

“Hm.”

“Tuna?”

Annie huffs a little laugh, and Johanna clings to it. “I think I’ll name him Finn,” she decides. “Not Finnick, Finn. Else it will remind me too much of him.”

“Okay,” says Johanna, but Annie looks like she’s drifting again.

Johanna tries to tell herself that it will be okay, and it’s so, so hard, but it has to be enough, for now, while she waits for days when she can tell herself it’ll stay okay, and, maybe, although she doesn’t quite dare hope, days when she knows it’s okay. And she tries telling Annie that it’s okay again, but she looks like she’s folding, like paper.

***

To her credit, Annie lasts two whole months before something in her breaks and Johanna finds her note on the table, held down from the wind by a smooth grey stone. It looks eerie in the moonlight, unblemished and otherworldly and glowing a little. Her heart jumps to her throat and she runs from the house faster than she’s ever run in her life. She thinks she knows where Annie will be, and she’s not wrong.

And she thinks maybe Finnick’s watching over them in some sort of afterlife because if she hadn’t woken up and found the bed empty when she did, then she might have been too late.

Annie looks like a lost wraith as she stands on the edge of the cliff, in her nightgown. She’s too thin and too pale and too drawn out and she could almost already be dead.

“Annie!” she cries, not knowing what the hell she’s doing but praying it’s the right thing because if Annie jumps now, _it’s going to be all Johanna’s fault._

“Annie!”

Annie turns around, eyes wide and scared and hopeless, and holds her hands out. Johanna stops, and reaches out, and watches her take shuddering breaths and glance over her shoulder, face screwed up like she’s longing for something, but too scared to take it.

“Please, Annie.” She risks another step forward. Johanna vaguely wonders if she should have called the hospital or the lifeguards or something before running, wonders if she’s an idiot, wonders again if Annie’s going to die because of her.

“Please, Annie, stay. Just hold on. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“I don’t—” She's hesitant, uncertain, her voice comes out in a croak, but she doesn’t move.

It feels like eternity that the two of them are standing there. Annie doesn’t move a muscle once, but Johanna inches forward, feeling like she’s walking a tightrope over a churning sea. When she finally touches Annie’s hand, she comes, pliant. Lost, like Johanna’s her anchor—and Johanna tugs her away from the cliff and holds her so tight she thinks she might snap the brittle bones in her ribs. After some time, Annie holds her back, and Johanna nearly sobs with relief. She’s dizzy, but she keeps herself contained, keeps overwhelming thoughts of _what if_ at bay.

“The baby,” says Annie eventually, numb. And Johanna takes Annie’s hand and leads her back. Finn is still sleeping and Annie looks so, so tired and Johanna feels like her own skin is made of glass, like if she touches something the wrong way she’ll break. But she holds on.

“You won’t—”

“No,” says Annie, so, so weary. And none of it is fair, because isn’t Johanna broken too? Why is she left picking up the pieces?

“It won’t be better. Without you,” says Johanna, in reference to the note.

“Okay,” says Annie, too tired to argue, but at least Johanna thinks she’s too tired to try again. Not tonight, anyway. So she leads her back into the bedroom and watches her climb under the covers robotically and Johanna wants to climb in and hold her but she really is going to break. She can’t, not tonight.

So, she leaves the door ajar and steps out and tries to hold all her thoughts at bay. The phone feels cool against her ear and the number she types in is clumsy but she gets it in the end. Nobody responds the first three times she calls, but on the forth try she’s rewarded with a gruff voice.

“Who the hell is calling at three in the fucking morning?”

“Haymitch?”

His tone softens at once. “Hey, sweetheart.” Then, concerned— “Is everything alright?”

“Annie tried killing herself.”

Haymitch yells into the phone until Johanna convinces him that everything is fine, Annie’s fine, the baby’s fine. And then Johanna can’t help thinking of the _what if_ and imagines Annie’s frail body sprawled on the rocks below, waves hitting it again and again and again until she goes under, swallowed, just like she wanted. She lets out one sob, and Haymitch immediately stops his torrent.

“Johanna? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” says Johanna, and they both know she’s lying.

“Okay,” says Haymitch. “I've got you sweetheart. I’ll call the hospital right after and arrange something for Annie, a therapist, or a psychiatrist. You can take her in tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” says Johanna, and she feels stretched too thin. It’s not fair, that Johanna’s left picking up the pieces. “Wait, Haymitch.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I—” she begins, feeling so small, younger than she has in forever. “Can I get therapy too?”

She can tell that Haymitch is surprised, but she doesn’t care, not anymore, not now that everything’s over and she’s got somebody to love but she still feels so desperately scared, so hollow, left to shoulder through everything alone. “Yeah,” says Haymitch, after a pause. He sounds wondering, a little proud, and Johanna lets herself feel a little warmth. She’s doing something right, at least. “Yeah, of course you can, sweetheart. Call me if you need anything else.”

She hangs up, then lifts the phone again just so she can hear the dial tone. It’s strangely soothing. Then she sinks to the floor underneath it and lets herself cry, silently shaking underneath the phone. It still should have been her, and not Finnick, but there’s nothing anyone can do anymore and Johanna’s going to live.

***

It's alright, on the beach. The wind stings Johanna’s cheeks but baby Finn is safely tucked in her coat, asleep, and the pebbles make a hollow crunching sounds as she walks. The sound is nice—firm and solid and echoing all at once. Clattering together, reminding Johanna that she’s still here, Annie’s here, the baby’s here. Johanna doesn’t walk all the way to the shore. She sits down close enough that she can hear the sea sighing against the pebbles, running fingers through hundreds of tiny stones, gentle, but far enough that she can’t see the details in the foamy surf.

“It’s cold,” Johanna says, not because she thinks Annie will listen to her, but because she feels obligated to at least warn her. Annie just gives this cracked smile and takes off her boots anyway, and her tights. Johanna watches her feet curling over the uneven stones, so pale against all the colours. Brittle like bones. Sandy-coloured, rusty red, grey and black and spotted, opalescent and smooth, round. Each pebble fitting neatly into Johanna’s palm. Annie doesn’t falter as she takes ten slow steps forwards and lets the sea well up around her toes, then her ankles, then her calves, before it rushes away again, sighing. Slipping.

There’s a bleached skeleton of a bird further down the beach and Johanna focusses on it. It’s strangely beautiful, sprawled against the stone, angles harsh against the circular pattern of a hundred bold stones. Difficult to spot at first, like a collage, but impossible to look away from. Dead bird, a crab’s claw. Seaweed, like fingers, creeping up the beach. A mermaid’s purse. Finnick told her that the creatures under the sea use them to carry pearls, but Annie told her that they come from baby sharks. Johanna may know which explanation is true, but likes the other better. She thinks maybe Annie’s trying to ground herself again, with fact, while Johanna’s trying to forget a little bit. Slip away. She’s been grounded for too long.

When she turns back to Annie, she’s got her dress bunched around her thighs and the sea is still heaving gently, drawing away from her calves and surging in again to touch the bottom of the fabric. Stain it salty. Johanna gulps as Annie takes another minuscule step forward, hiking her dress up that little bit higher.

“Annie.”

She turns. Even from this distance, Johanna can see the tightness around her eyes, the dark circles stamped like bruises and the weariness. Old, too old for her bones—thin wrists, angular, like the dead bird’s. They’re living in a vacuum, the both of them.

“Come back.”

Annie hesitates, and looks back out over the sea, toward the horizon. Johanna can’t see her face but she can see the way the wind whips her hair around her face, long, dark strands twisting and curling like they’re reaching for something distant.

“Please?”

“Okay.”

She walks slowly, delicately, but evenly, over the slick pebbles without once faltering. A naiad, maybe. Annie belongs to the sea. Maybe she was born from a mermaid’s purse. But she comes back to Johanna all the same, and dries her legs with her dress and wiggles her tights back on with some difficultly, and pulls her boots onto her feet and she’s human once more, when she sits down next to Johanna and sighs with the sea.

She shivers and Johanna points out that she’d be fine if she hadn’t waltzed into the sea, and Annie laughs a little, and palms the stones around her until she comes up with a flat one. She throws it, and it skips three times before sinking.

They’re not quite touching, but it’s close enough.

***

Johanna hates the market, because there’s people, but Annie likes it and if Annie likes it, then Johanna will go with her every single time. They hold hands while weaving through the throngs of people and Johanna supposes the market is alright because even though there’s so many people, it means that nobody gets a chance to stare. And with Annie’s clammy hand in hers, Johanna can even overlook the perpetual smell of fish that settles over it like a dense fog.

Annie buys fresh fish a lot, and it’s alright. Johanna’s gotten used to all the ways Annie cooks it, whether it’s in soup or fried or grilled, and the texture is nice. Flaky and delicate, sometimes feels insubstantial, but then again, Johanna’s used to not eating a lot. Annie claims fish is good for the skin anyway, and Johanna’s skin hasn’t quite recovered since her time in a cell.

The scales seem to glitter like rainbows, lying in ice that catches the light like a thousand little diamonds. District One. Johanna shakes her head and holds Finn a little tighter, muttering _stop squirming,_ at him. She lets Annie drag her further through all the people. Annie doesn’t much like people either, but she says that it’s not as bad as it used to be. And besides, Johanna being there makes it better. She follows, trying not to let her gaze catch on wide, dead, fish-eyes, glassy and staring, gills red and gaping. Like they’re trying to speak to her. Johanna hopes she’s not going mad.

“Jo.”

“Huh?”

Annie takes her hand again in answer, and leads her to where the air smells fresher and saltier, where there are trinkets and sea-glass and wicker baskets in stalls instead.

“Let’s get some stuff. For decorating our house. It feels plain.”

Johanna grins. “I’ll leave that to you.”

Annie smiles back, and it takes Johanna’s breath away. Wind chimes, and they remind Johanna of Annie’s laugh. A vase, for flowers. Annie says that she’ll pick some. A new set of plain linen curtains embroidered with little shells at the bottom. It’s nice, the small changes. Makes the house look a little fresher, well-lived in—a home, not just a house. Johanna thinks she could stay forever.

“How are you getting on?” she asks, when they’re back home.

Finn’s just turned one, and Annie hasn’t tried hurting herself since the last time. Johanna’s hair’s grown out to her chin, and Annie does it up for her in twin French braids before she goes to work every day. Johanna can take showers now, and she can stand in the rain without a second thought, although she still cringes at the idea of having a bath. Annie still zones out sometimes, dissociates, escapes into her head, but she tries to stop it now, instead of encouraging it. She says it’s frustrating. Johanna’s hopeful that maybe it’s gotten to the point that Annie no longer wants to miss anything, no longer wants to miss out on life.

And Annie teaches Johanna to cook fish like Annie’s mama taught her, but Johanna’s developed a hatred of bivalves, like clams and mussels. Maybe because that’s what she ate in the arena. Whatever. She doesn’t think about it and she supposes it’s a good thing, being able to afford to be picky.

“How are you getting on?”

“I don’t know,” says Annie, watching Finn pull himself to his feet and start stumbling around the kitchen, smacking cupboards with his toy boat. Johanna made that boat for him, carved it with tools she’d borrowed from work, before sanding it smooth and coating it with shiny varnish. It’s covered in teeth marks now.

“I’m okay, I think,” Annie muses. She smiles a little when Finn tries biting her knee. “The therapy… is it working for you?”

“I don’t know,” says Johanna. “It’s helpful, I guess. Having someone to talk to. Until he tries psychoanalysing me and pisses me off.”

“Watch the swear,” says Annie, but off course it’s too late and Finn announces, “Piss!” with a toothy grin. Annie rolls her eyes but smiles, clear eyes drifting to look out of the window, past the cliffs and towards the sea. Her eyes are normally light brown, hazel, until she looks at the sea, and somehow, they always reflect its mood, whether they’re stormy and deep, or vivid turquoise, or calm grey, like how they are now. Johanna swallows, and loves her so much it hurts.

“I want to buy a boat,” announces Annie, a sudden twinkle in her eye.

Johanna splutters. “What?”

“A boat,” she repeats, a grin spreading across her face—a ghost of what it used to be, but it’s there, at least. “I want to buy one.”

“With what money?” asks Johanna, and Annie rolls her eyes but concedes.

“Fine. I won’t get a boat, but I’m getting a job and saving up.”

“Okay,” says Johanna, and she smiles too. It’s okay. They’re moving forward.

***

“It doesn’t make me want to freak out anymore,” muses Annie, staring at the TV. She adjusts her body against Johanna’s so she’s facing the screen better, and tugs Finn to the both of them when he tries running past on his chubby toddler legs. He squirms until Johanna offers him the crude bear-toy she made for him, and the slightly more delicate mermaid-toy that she persuaded her boss to make, and Finn settles peacefully into his mother’s arms.

Johanna gulps and turns her attention back to the screen—there’s a picture of Boggs up there now. Johanna liked Boggs. Oh well. And so, the memorial service continues until Finnick’s face is on the screen and Annie says, “Look, Finn, that’s your daddy.”

Finnick’s staring into the distance in the photograph they chose, and his smile is fake. At least he’s in uniform, and not any of the games stuff. Finn junior babbles, and shakes the toy bear at the screen. He can talk now, sort of—he can say _ma,_ and _Jo,_ and _piss,_ but still prefers to spew a slew of nonsense that only Annie can make heads or tails of.

Annie sighs, long and even and mournful like the sea shore. “I miss him.”

“So do I,” says Johanna, voice tripping a little.

Annie turns her head and squints at her. “Did you love him?” she asks, and Johanna startles.

“No. Not like that.”

“Huh,” says Annie, and settles back in Johanna’s arms when the program changes back to the news—something about cheap housing in the capitol and rebuilding the economy in District Eight. Finn falls asleep curled up against Annie’s side, and his toy bear slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a dull thud.

Annie shifts, and Johanna thinks she’s fallen asleep too, until she mumbles, “Thank you,” against Johanna’s side.

“For what?”

“For this,” says Annie, sleepily. “For sticking with me and Finn even when everything’s hard and going to shit.”

“Language,” says Johanna, and she can feel Annie grinning against her shoulder.

“Shush, you. I can say what I like when Finn’s asleep.”

The both of them look at Finn, who stirs a little. Annie picks up the little wooden bear and tucks it into his arms.

“Thank you,” Annie repeats, and Johanna loves her.

“Don’t thank me,” she says. “There’s not another place in this world that I’d rather be.”

Annie sighs again, but it’s a content sigh, and Johanna can feel her breathing even out when she falls asleep.

***

“Guess what,” says Annie, when she waltzes into the kitchen, home three hours later than she should have been. Johanna’s been trying to convince herself that everything’s alright for three hours, and she lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding.

“What?” quips Finn, taking his attention away from his picture-books.

“I bought a boat,” says Annie, smugly.

Johanna looks up, startled. “You _what?”_

“I bought a boat,” Annie repeats. She’s got this mad glint in her eyes that makes Johanna’s heart beat faster. “And she’s a beauty. Mahogany plywood, twenty-eight feet long. She’s going to need some repairs, but I got a really good deal.”

“You did not,” says Johanna, incredulous. “There’s no way. We’ve only been saving up for a few years.”

“I’m telling you,” says Annie. “I got a really, really good deal. I might have pulled the ex-victor card, and the Finnick’s widow card.”

It’s still odd, saying ex-victor so nonchalantly, saying Finnick’s widow without wincing. But they’re getting there, and not for the first time, Johanna can see a glimpse of the Annie who existed before her games.

“You totally flirted with the guy selling it,” Johanna accuses, her eyes narrowed, and Annie laughs.

“Maybe,” she says. “But anyway. What about you and flirting, Johanna? I’ve heard you’re kind of cosy with that colleague of yours—what’s his name, Cameron—”

“Oh, no,” gags Johanna.

“He’s cute,” says Annie. “C’mon, I think he wants to go on a date with you.”

“He’s not my type.”

“Who’s your type?” asks Annie, and Johanna snorts.

“Women,” she says bluntly, and Annie laughs alongside her. Johanna thinks anything is possible when Annie laughs like that, but there are more pressing matters to address.

“But the boat,” Johanna continues. “You really just decided to buy one?”

“You’re not mad?”

“No,” admits Johanna, because nothing that makes Annie smile like that can make Johanna mad. “Just surprised. How much fixing have you got to do?”

So, Annie brings the boat to the dockyard that Johanna works in and Johanna only feels a bit bad when she flirts with Cameron and convinces him to help her with the parts she can’t fix herself. Then she spends countless quiet hours by herself, sometimes with Finn, when she sands down the hull and varnishes it and polishes it until it’s spotless. Johanna’s boss helps her sometimes, and Johanna likes it, likes the fact that there are people who care about her and who she can care about too. Her boss treats her like a daughter. In some ways, he reminds her of Haymitch, but softer.

And when she gets home, she spends countless more hours watching Annie sew sails, white, patchworked, slightly stained and sprawled over the couch and TV in the living room. Finn and Johanna use the mainsail as a fort until Annie kicks them out to go play somewhere else.

And there’s no replacing the fevered excitement in Annie’s eyes, when she turns the radio up and dances in the kitchen, when she insists on buying an extra jib (“Because really, Jo, the two that came with it are ratty and if the good one rips when we’re sailing we’ll need a spare”), and when Finn insists on progress updates the second she picks him up from pre-school. It’s beautiful, and Johanna finds herself genuinely excited for the first time since she was a kid.

“Johanna,” says Annie, and Johanna looks up from where she’s trying to make a net. “Jo.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you…” she pauses, and bites at a hangnail. Johanna slaps her hand away from her mouth. “Would you go on the maiden voyage? With me and Finn?”

Johanna stops short.

“It’ll be alright,” Annie’s quick to say, hands running down Johanna’s arm soothingly. “It’ll be okay, you won’t fall in; you won’t even get your feet wet. Please? It’ll mean a lot to me if you could. I mean, I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but—”

Johanna hesitates again, and thinks. She’s terrified. She’s never been on a boat, she still hasn’t dared have a bath in years, and she’s going to be surrounded by sea, all around. But, then again—if Annie’s gotten to the stage when she’s able to assure Johanna that _it’s going to be okay,_ after years of Johanna saying it to her _,_ then it must be true, and Johanna’s never trusted anyone more than Annie.

She takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

And it’s worth it to see Annie smile the way she does.

***

Johanna trusts Annie, sure, but it doesn’t stop her from getting seasick.

“You’ve got to relax,” says Annie, and Johanna focusses on taking deep breaths and staring to the horizon. She hasn’t dared move from her spot sitting in the cockpit yet, but she tries. One small step at a time, clutching every available surface as the boat tilts and leans and Annie runs around the deck barefoot, nimble, and hoists the mainsail by herself.

“You’re not supposed to do this,” says Annie cheerfully. “You’re supposed to be head-to-wind when you hoist the main, and you’re supposed to do it before the jib.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Johanna, now on the edge of the cockpit and eyeing Finn warily. Annie’s clipped him into a safety line but she’s still half-expecting him to tumble overboard.

“—but bringing the boat close-hauled makes it easy to hoist the main while sailing on the jib because there’s not any power in it—”

“Yeah, okay,” says Johanna. She clips on her own safety line, and checks her life jacket one more time. Annie’s not wearing either and Johanna thinks she’s stupid.

“—we’ll carry on sailing this course, I’ll tack onto starboard in five minutes—there’s a nice bay nearby that we can anchor in—”

“Yeah, okay.” Johanna gets up her courage and bum-shuffles across the deck and peers through the railing, peers down. She sees turquoise waves dancing beneath, rushing underneath her, eternity. So much water. She watches as that turquoise melts to dark blue when Annie tacks and the boat turns and the ocean gets thrown into the shade of their boat. She sees dark blue letters, _Mayflower_ painted with her own hand, big and bold and even. Annie told her that _Mayflower_ was the name of her mother’s old boat, and that it’s from old folklore. It did look pretty when they sprayed it with champagne.

And when Annie tacks again and brings it head to wind and anchors, Johanna watches the way she laughs, the way her dark hair whips in the wind (it’s shorter, now. Johanna cut it. It’s choppy but Annie says she likes it), and the way she looks so, so alive.

***

It’s okay, most of the time. She still sleeps in the same queen-size bed as Annie, just in case. But Johanna hasn’t had a nightmare in months and she’s forgotten how terrifying they can be—it’s particularly bad this time, waterboarding first, then being submerged. Hands with clean doctor’s gloves all over her body, forcing her downwards, and for a moment she can’t see, and then she’s shocked. It hurts so bad in her dream that she’s jolted awake, gasping.

She jumps up silently, trying not to wake Annie, and can’t stand the feel of her own sweat on her skin—she strips of her shirt and wipes it away frantically, curls in the corner and tries to take deep breaths again and again, like the doctor told her to do. She tells herself that she’s okay, again and again, and closes her eyes, heels of her palms digging in, but a tear escapes and it makes her jump, and start panicking again.

Grey fingers of dawn are creeping along the walls by the time it’s over, but she still can’t bring herself to turn on the tap for a glass of water.

“Are you okay?” asks Annie, when she wakes up and starts getting Finn ready for school.

“Yeah,” says Johanna. But she’s jittery all through breakfast, even though Annie cooks omelettes. She doesn’t finish, let alone ask for seconds, like she usually does.

“Are you okay?” Annie repeats, wide hazel eyes concerned.

“Just fine,” says Johanna, but she blanches when she realises it’s started to rain and the clouds are hanging over the sky, oppressive, and she feels like she’s suffocating because everything is wet, wet, wet.

“We’re taking a day off work,” Annie announces, and when she takes her into a hug, Johanna loves her.

Annie takes Finn to school and by the time she comes back, it’s stopped raining—the sun’s peaking through the clouds and when Annie opens the door, it carries a fresh breeze and petrichor. Johanna feels like a child when Annie coaxes her onto the porch.

She touches the wet wood, and that’s okay. And so is putting her hand underneath the dribble of water that flows from the gutter, crystal-clear and startlingly cold.

“I had a nightmare,” Johanna admits.

“Huh,” says Annie, tracing little patterns on the wood she’s sitting on, one eye fixed on a little bird that’s hopping through the long grass. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” says Johanna. “I guess Dr Graves was right. They’ll get fewer, but they’ll never go away.”

“It’s alright.” Annie takes her hand when another cloud comes over and Johanna shivers.

“I’ve got to take a shower,” mumbles Johanna. “I didn’t have one last night, and I still smell.”

Annie gives her an odd look, which Johanna ignores. “Okay,” she concedes. “I’ll get started on lunch.”

Johanna sits on the lid of the toilet and counts the tiles. They’re light blue, slightly different shades. Then when she runs out of tiles to count she turns her back to the shower and looks into the mirror and she sees hollow eyes and a curve to her lips and a little fucking girl. And Johanna really thought she was doing better. But she remembers what the doctor said, and she wants to get better, for Annie and Finn. For herself. So she starts counting the good things about herself instead, like the way her hair is long enough to cover her breasts now, even though she keeps having to cut it because of the permanent split ends, and the way she’s put on solid muscle after working in the dockyard for years.

Annie doesn’t bother knock when she walks in, and doesn’t look surprised to see Johanna sitting fully dressed. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s eat lunch first.”

It’s fresh sourdough, that Annie gets free from the baker every Friday. Peeta got talking to him once, when he visited and went to the bakery with Annie, and Annie’s also one of those people who used to like other people, and she’s doing better now, with liking people again. And people seem to like her too, now that she’s less mad than she used to be.

It’s fresh sourdough, and tomatoes from the vine—the type with the nice, earthy smell—and salad and this chilli olive oil that Haymitch bought by accident the last time he visited, and feta cheese. It’s green and simple and Johanna feels herself relaxing when Annie starts telling her about the history of feta cheese, something the guy who sold it to her at the market was telling her about.

Annie clears their plates, and then— “Do you want me to shower with you?” she asks, blushing a little.

Johanna stares, wide-eyed. “I—”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say yes if you find it weird—” says Annie, quickly.

“I don’t—” says Johanna helplessly. “Wouldn’t that be weird for you?”

“No,” says Annie. “You’ve done so much for me. I think I’d do pretty much anything for you.”

“I’m a lesbian,” Johanna reminds her.

“So?” asks Annie, still blushing light pink.

“I’m in love with you,” Johanna blurts out.

“Oh,” says Annie. Neither of them says anything for a while, but it’s okay. Johanna’s past the point of panicking and thinks that Annie probably knew anyway.

“It’s okay,” whispers Annie. Then repeats, “It’s okay,” with conviction, and stands up. “I’ll shower with you. Unless you find it weird.”

Johanna takes a shaky breath and accepts the hand that’s offered. “Okay.”

And she doesn’t take her eyes off Annie’s when she strips and turns on the spray and holds her hand out again. Annie’s eyes are steady and calm and comforting and Johanna imagines that if Finnick were here, he wouldn’t have been prouder. Johanna swallows and takes her clothes off too, discarding them on the side. Her skin erupts into goose-bumps but Johanna ignores it and takes Annie’s hand, only flinching a little at the first feeling of water.

She reminds herself that it’s okay, and that it was only a nightmare and this is only a shower, and takes a step forward. Annie’s hair is slicked-back and wet, and her eyes are still so steady and Johanna trusts her. It takes a while to inch into the shower, bit by bit, and even longer to get her heart rate down but she takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax.

“All good?” asks Annie.

“Yeah,” says Johanna, but doesn’t stop looking into her eyes. They stand there together until it becomes tolerable, and when Annie starts washing her hair, long, gentle fingers massaging Johanna’s scalp, she knows she’ll never stop loving Annie and that’s okay, because Annie’s never going to leave.

***

“It’s annoying,” says Annie.

“What?” asks Johanna. She looks up from where she’s gazing down at the waves rushing beneath them—she’s able to stand up now, on the deck, and she knows how to tack the boat and she helps Annie with the sails sometimes. And they only go out on nice days, and never far enough that Johanna can’t see the shore.

She’s stopped getting seasick, and she knows how to fish, and they saw a pod of dolphins once, water-slick and sleek, flashes of grey beneath them and tossing rainbows into the air when they jumped. And Finn is a pain in the ass.

“What’s annoying?” repeats Johanna.

A smile dances around the corner of Annie’s mouth. “How much Finn looks like his daddy.”

Johanna frowns. “Why is that annoying?”

“I pushed him out of my womb, yet he’s still a carbon copy of Finnick, right down to his smile,” she says, with a fond look, as she guides the boat head to wind. Johanna starts slowly paying out the anchor line.

Finn is five, and he’s mastered the art of getting in the way as much as physically possible while still clipped to the safety line. He shrieks, startling yet another seagull away from the boat, and bursts into delighted laughter.

“I bet Finnick’s smug,” says Johanna. “If he were here, he’d be such a daddy’s boy.”

“I know,” says Annie, and she looks wistful but it’s not too bad anymore. She seems to dissociate then, spacing out into the distance, and Johanna tentatively climbs down the steps at the stern of the boat and crouches next to her, watching the clear water lap at her toes. She touches it, tentative, and licks her finger—salty.

Annie doesn’t notice when Johanna steadies herself and submerges her calves into the water, just like Annie’s doing, and takes Annie’s hand.

***

A pastel-coloured sunset, sitting on the grass outside their home. Annie’s warm against her side, and solid. Still here. The sky isn’t dramatic, like it sometimes is with aggressive orange streaks, red and purple clashing in the clouds and gold spilling from gaps like a deity reaching down—it’s gentle today, soft. Muted.

It’s a smooth gradient that goes from soft pink to blue, to hazy purple in the same shades as Finn’s chalk drawings, smudged and light. It seems to blend into the sea, which is completely still and reflects pink-grey-blue, indigo into grey again as it creeps up the shore and rustles against one hundred small pebbles. The sound is so familiar by now that Johanna needs to concentrate to hear it.

“Do you still think of them?” asks Annie.

Johanna frowns. “Who?”

“The people you killed.”

“I try not to,” says Johanna. “But I do.”

She takes Annie’s hand, and admires the way their fingers look tangled together, sprawled on the long grass and heather. Annie’s hands are pale and bony as ever, because she never could get a tan, despite her long hours out at sea, but Johanna’s are brown by now, calloused. Weathered. She likes it.

“There’s going to be a storm tomorrow,” says Annie, and Johanna doesn’t bother ask how she knows. She’s staring into the distance, eyes reflecting pink-grey-blue, but she’s still here. Johanna breathes in deeply and savours the smell of salt, of smoking fish. Sometimes she still misses the scent of pine, but District Four smells like home now.

“If you get up early, the sky will be red tomorrow morning,” says Annie. “I’m getting up,” she adds.

“Okay,” says Johanna. “Good for you. I’m not.”

Annie laughs, and leans against Johanna, and Johanna still loves her, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s beautiful and steady and warm and more than she’s ever dared hope for.

“Thank you,” says Annie, again.

“For what?” repeats Johanna.

“For being here.” Then, “I think I love you too.”

“Oh,” says Johanna, and neither of them move until it gets cold and Johanna helps Annie to her feet so they can go inside. Finn’s singing some old sea shanty when Annie gives him a bath, and when Johanna goes in afterwards, there’s water on every available surface and she bites her lip to hide her grin when she gets to work cleaning it up.

When Johanna gets into bed that night, Annie tugs her close. They go to sleep that way, tangled so closely together that Johanna’s not sure who’s limbs are whose, and she loves her so much she lets herself truly believe that they’ve made something permanent together.

***

Johanna can’t imagine eating anything but excessive amounts of fish now, and according to Annie, she cooks it just like Annie’s mother did. She’s just getting to work chopping coriander when the door bursts open and Finn darts in, yanking on her arm to show her his new pebble.

“Careful, sweetheart, Jo’s holding a knife.”

“Sorry,” he says, dismissive, and waves a pebble at her. It’s stripy this one, about the size of a walnut, angles smoothed by the sea. “Do you like it?”

Johanna exchanges a helpless glance with Annie, who’s laughing. Finn’s rock collection is on its way to rapidly getting out of hand.

“Yes,” she says, and Finn runs into the next room, satisfied.

Annie walks up behind her and kisses her cheek, then rests her elbows on Johanna’s shoulders as she watches her stir the soup. She finishes stirring and turns the fire down and puts the lid back on, before guiding Annie away from the stove to lean up and kiss her more thoroughly, and it’s so perfect that she’s allowed to do that now, whenever she wants.

“Let’s get married,” says Annie, and Johanna breaks away and stares.

“What?”

“Sorry.” Annie’s blushing a little. “That’s not how you’re supposed to do it. But would you say yes? If I wanted to marry you?”

“I—yeah,” says Johanna, a little breathlessly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” And Annie grins, one of her full-out smiles that looks like the sun reflecting off the sea. Johanna thinks that Finnick is probably out there somewhere, smiling, and it’s all okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from _Baby Blue_ by King Krule. I feel like Johanna was softer in this than she's portrayed in the books but fuck it, she deserves a break, and Annie makes her soft
> 
> hope you enjoyed, kudos and comments always appreciated, tumblr @jvo-taiski
> 
> Jx


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